needles and pins

I just returned from a three-day, unplanned visit to the hospital. I spent the first twelve hours in the emergency ward, where I was poked and stuck and prodded by a variety of apologetic medical staff wielding a variety of sharp objects. After a quick assessment by a very astute doctor, it was determined that a regimen of antibiotics would clear up the nasty pinna perichondritis (Google that. Go ahead.) from which I was suffering. 

The antibiotics would be administered intravenously and a young nurse (Who am I kidding? Everyone on staff was young!) came by to insert an IV line into the crook of my left arm. Now, admittedly, I don't like getting needles. I have been vaccinated. I have had blood taken from me. I've been hooked up to IVs. Each time I experienced one of these, I have to close my eyes and turn my head away from the arm in which the needle will be inserted. Usually the nurse or technician will offer a cute verbal warning — "Little pinch..." — before sliding that slender metal spike beneath the top layer of my skin. In reality, I don't ever feel anything. Sometimes, I don't even feel that "little pinch" that was promised. I just don't care to watch the actual process. I can't watch it happening to someone else and I can't watch it happening to me. Kind of like the teacup ride in Disneyland.

Once the IV port was inserted in my left arm, each bag of healing antibiotics would be painlessly connected to the long tube that was now securely taped to the inside of my elbow. However, after two bags were emptied into my bloodstream, the vein that had received the IV was determined to be "sluggish" — which, I have come to understand, is a medical term. Another "little pinch" warning was issued and a new IV was inserted on my forearm just a few inches closer to my wrist from the original entry point. A third IV was connected and we were back in the "getting better" business. A lot of activity at 4 o'clock in the morning.

At around 6:30 AM, just after I quickly finished my hospital breakfast of Rice Krispies and horrible coffee, I was moved to a regular room in a new wing of the hospital, where it was quiet, secluded and devoid of any of the loud, wet coughs and woeful moaning that were rampant in the ER.

In my new accommodations, the antibiotic procedure continued. Every so often, a new nurse would come into my room and regretfully inform me that I needed to provide serval vials of blood. Since my left arm was otherwise occupied, my right arm would be the source of the required sanguine extraction. Once again, the "little pinch" heads-up was announced, immediately followed by a faint twinge in my arm. Because my eyes were tightly shut and my head was turned away from the action at hand, I could only hear a length of medical tape being ripped from a roll to hold a wad of cotton in place over the withdrawal point. I was asked to provide blood several times during my stay, each new procedure similar to the last.

On the morning of what would be my last day in the hospital, a new nurse came in to my room to tell me that hospital policy requires all patients who are in bed for extended periods of time (like me) receive a blood thinner to combat clotting. This medication — surprise! surprise! — would be administered via a needle. And this particular needle would be delivered to my abdomen. Getting a shot in the abdomen for someone who does not possess a rock-hard, six-pack of rectus abdominis muscles is no treat. Unlike a shot in the arm, it is very difficult to brace and tighten the abdomen of someone who stretches out on a sofa rather than a rowing machine. So, while the nurse readied the sharpened syringe, I tried my best to tense up my gut. It didn't work and unlike my non-reaction to previous shots, I let out out little "JEEZ!" Well, maybe not little and maybe it was fully pronounced "JESUS CHRIST!" The nurse empathetically winced herself and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry." 

I explained that I never had an involuntary reaction to an injection before, but that one caught me off guard. I went on to say that, while I don't like needles, I can tolerate them. She laughed and said that she has had patients — brawny men whose arms and torsos are covered with intricate tattoos — wince and scream from injections. She couldn't understand how a quick tiny needle could freak out someone who obviously had to sit for a considerable length of time while needles were repeatedly inserted and extracted — over and over and over — into their skin. Getting tattooed — especially some of the more elaborate designs — requires hours and hours of needle pricks. A blood sample or vaccine takes less that two minutes.

I looked at the nurse and answered: "It's simple. Tattoos are cool. Getting blood work done.... not so much."

She laughed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i don't want to die in the hospital

Well, it happened to me again.

I spent last weekend in a hospital after, once again, experiencing what has been identified as a "vasovagal syncope." Since I missed that course in art school, I had to read up on and familiarize myself with vasovagal syncope. It means that I have a tendency to pass out unexpectedly and at the most inopportune times (as though there is the perfect time for losing consciousness). Saturday evening marked my fourth episode in twenty years – all occurring under vastly different circumstances and all ending with me in the hospital.... actually four different hospitals.

This time, I was enjoying dinner with my wife and her brother's family in the Waterfront Buffet at Harrah's Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. Mrs. Pincus and I had frequented this particular buffet quite often when my wife was on the good side of Harrah's marketing department. Lately, however, they must have switched how player algorithms are interpreted and she was unceremoniously cut off from all benefits the casino previously offered. There was a brief flurry of promotion offered in the summer of 2017, but it was fleeting and, by Labor Day, the short-lived party was over. But as 2018 wound to a conclusion, a booklet from Harrah's arrived in the mail and a month's worth of (minimal) "free slot play" and four weekly gifts were offered to Mrs. P for the month of January. Plus one free buffet.  

We redeemed the buffet voucher on Saturday, never expecting to end our meal with me being escorted out of the place on a gurney, surrounded by EMTs and a half dozen electronic leads taped to my chest.

Comedian Rich Hall once observed that he never saw more broken glass anywhere else in the world than in Atlantic City. In the spaces between the glitzy casinos, Atlantic City is a sad little town. It's like an old hooker – once glamorous and appealing, but now doleful and broken after years of use, its beauty now faded. (I have used the same analogy for Fremont Street in Las Vegas.) So, you can only imagine what a hospital in the heart of the Atlantic City casino district is like. That's where I was taken. I didn't have to imagine.

After being prodded and poked for a few hours in the emergency room of Atlantic Care Hospital (on the world famous Boardwalk, next to Caesars Casino), my second gurney of the evening was wheeled up to the fourth floor of the Heritage wing at 2:30 in the morning. The room was dark and I wasn't wearing my glasses, but I could make out that there was someone in the first bed in the room. The nurse drew the curtain between the beds and divided the room in half. Feeling much better, I lifted myself into the bed. The nurse adjusted a pillow behind my head – and then jabbed a needle into my left arm to attach me to an IV drip. She left and returned with my wife, who had been told to stay at a nearby waiting area until I got "settled." (I think that means "until I had another needle jabbed into me.") With our car back in Harrah's parking garage, Mrs. Pincus would be staying the night with me. The nurse asked the man in the first bed if it was okay and he grunted his approval through his slumber. Mrs. Pincus sat in a recliner that was already in the room and tried (unsuccessfully) to get comfortable. I, too tried to get comfortable, but was awakened several times to have my blood pressure checked and to dispense a vial or two of blood for the lab.

When the Sunday morning sun shone through the window, the real fun began. My "roommate" was visited by a parade of medical staff. With every new technician, doctor, nurse, therapist, food service worker and nurse practitioner, he became more agitated, annoyed and, eventually, combative. He dismissed every single suggestion, recommendation and diagnosis that was offered. He argued with every one and demanded to be discharged. Between visits from medical staff, he engaged in venomous conversations on his cell phone. I tried not to listen, but he was just a foot or two away, behind a thin cloth curtain, so I heard nearly every word. He spat phases like "They don't know what the hell they're talking about!" and "I'm getting the hell out of here!" The volume on his cellphone was turned up high and he had some sort of "speech-to-action"  function turned on, so, every so often, we heard an electronic female voice intone "HOME SCREEN" and "CALLING DAUGHTER." And it also phonetically recited each letter as he punched out a text message. After a while, my "roommate" got dressed, argued with the attending nurse, who repeated to the patient that he would be leaving "AMA" (against medical advice). My soon-to-be-ex "roommate" waved the nurse's pleas off and stormed out of the room. The nurse sighed and came over to my side of the room to take my blood pressure. As he wrapped the cuff around my upper arm, he informed my wife and me that the guy is a regular visitor and he would return within this week.

The bed was empty for a few hours until another man was brought in. This man also argued with treatment, dismissed diagnosis and complained about those who were there to help. There was also a lengthy discussion about the color of his urine, which I could have done without.

I suppose hospital visits are a by-product of getting older. I went for almost fifty years between stays, but recently, they are coming closer together. One doctor – a cardiologist who told me I could save money by purchasing henna hair dye in a Indian grocery store – offered some words of encouragement, though. He said if, Heaven forbid, I do pass out again, a call to 911 is not really necessary. Especially if the episode only lasts under thirty seconds and I rebound very quickly.

Hopefully, I have had my last trip to a hospital. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

gettin' down here with the people

It was a typical Saturday night, but it turned out to be anything but typical.

I picked my son up around 5 o'clock, just after he finished his on-air shift at the radio station where he works. We had plans to go to a concert in Delaware, just over the Pennsylvania border. We had plenty of time, so we hopped on the subway and headed to a new restaurant we had heard about to grab dinner. Pretty typical so far.

After dinner, we jumped back on the westbound subway to get my car and make our way down to the show. I punched the address of the venue into the GPS on my phone and we were off. After crossing the state boundary, I carefully followed the mechanical-voiced instructions though uncharted rural Delaware thoroughfares until we arrived at our destination, which, in this case, was the Arden Gild Hall. Again, pretty typical.

It was our first time at Arden Gild, a rustic looking compound comprised of several utility buildings and a large main structure that, once inside, my son observed that it looked like a "hunting lodge for rich weirdos." The room was slowly filling up and the weather had just turned to a more seasonal clime for our area. Actually, the temperature was inching towards the higher numbers on the scale. We spotted a few members of both the warm-up act (Scantron) and the headliner (Low Cut Connie), both of whom we've seen numerous times before. As a matter of fact, the bands actually share a few members. My son and I chatted with James and Larry, the Connie boys' guitarist and drummer respectively, and then moved closer to the stage as the lights dimmed and the first band played the opening notes of their first song. Still, nothing out of the ordinary.

After a brief intermission, my son and I moved even closer to the stage. Scantron burst onto the stage with the same high-energy, high-octane bravura they displayed a week ago on the tiny stage at Kung Fu Necktie. Performing this time as a trio (with a supplemental keyboardist), the band ripped through a raucous playlist that included garage rockers and odes to James' Delaware roots. Scantron concluded their set and crew began setting up for Low Cut Connie's show-closing set. I talked with my son and a photographer friend of his. Soon our conversation was joined by a lovely couple we have met at many a Connie show, who just happen to be the parents of Low Cut Connie's charismatic frontman Adam Weiner. So far, so typical.

Suddenly, a strange feeling fuzzed up my head and my vision. Things started to get atypical.

As the stage crew adjusted mic stands, arranged guitar stands and placed the venerable "Shondra" (Adam's trusty, road-worn piano) in her usual spot at the front of the stage, my peripheral vision began to close in creating the effect of standing in a darkened tunnel. My head began to swim. I removed my denim jacket and tied it around my waist. I leaned toward my son and asked him if he could get me a bottle of water. He took several steps towards the bar at the back of the venue, but stopped to grab a folding chair for me. He could tell I was a little "off." He didn't have time to unfold the chair as I fell unconscious into his arms. Adam's father jumped from his chair and rushed to my aid, helping my son to lower me to the floor. I don't remember any of this. I only remember opening my eyes to see a dozen or so faces peering down on me from my prone position. My shirt was drenched in my own perspiration. Two women, crouched on either side of me, identified themselves as nurses. One grasped my wrist as she searched for a pulse, while the other started in with a barrage of questions — "What's your name?," "How old are you?" (My son later informed me that I got that one wrong.) The one that momentarily jolted me back to my senses was "Who's the president?" I remember scowling and cautioning my interrogator not to get me started.

My son and Adam's dad hoisted me into a folding chair. Someone placed a wet towel on my neck. I felt better, but only for a few minutes because I passed out a second time. Meanwhile, the venue's announcer was backstage, informing the band that "some guy with bright orange hair passed out in front of the stage." Adam interrupted his pre-show rituals to exclaim, "I know that guy." When I came around the second time, Adam was kneeling on the floor in front of me, grasping my sweaty palms in his hands. The rest of the band was at the edge of the stage, gazing down on me, along with nearly everyone else in place. I looked up to see my son on his cellphone.

"Who are you calling?," I asked.

"911.," he replied. He was calm and in control.

Soon, the crowd parted for two EMTs who helped me on to a gurney and wheeled me out to a waiting ambulance. As they shoved me backwards into the vehicle, my head reeled. My son announced, "I guess this is a good time to call Mom." He punched in my home phone number and slowly, coolly and calmly explained the situation to my wife, who was an hour away in Philadelphia. As I was whisked off to the hospital, with my son in the ambulance's passenger seat and my wife frantically dressing then speeding south on I-95, I could imagine the chatter among the people at the concert venue.

"I wonder what that guy was on?"

"Wow! I think that guy died!"

"I never saw anyone with that color hair before!"

Within minutes, I was in a small room in the emergency department of Christiana Care Hospital in Wilmington. An attentive team of technicians, nurses and doctors dutifully poked and prodded me. They asked me the same questions several times over. They took my blood pressure a million times and extracted many vials of blood from my left arm. A bag of some magic rejuvenating fluid was attached to my right arm via a tube and I began to feel much better. A short time later, my wife arrived at the emergency room, blotting tears from her eyes. She made me promise that I wouldn't die.

I would find out later that Adam and his pals dedicated the evening's performance to me. (Appreciated, but how embarrassing!) The next day, my Twitter feed lit up with well wishes and concern from a sampling of people I met at the show. (Appreciated, but how embarrassing!) My son stated that, while we can never show our faces at Arden Gild again, I better not pull that shit in September, when Low Cut Connie makes a return trip to Union Transfer in Philadelphia. "I go to Union Transfer a lot," he explained, "I want to be able to go there again." (How very embarrassing!)

I'm just happy that this didn't turn out to be Low Cut Connie's "Gimme Shelter."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the cold never bothered me anyway

Who ever imagined that a lingering cold would land me in the hospital? Certainly not me. But, here's how it happened.....

My family and I had just returned home from a fun, whirlwind vacation in Walt Disney World. We were four adults, traveling in my tiny Toyota RAV4 packed with our luggage and in each other's close company for nearly 32 hours of actual "car time," as we opted to drive from Philadelphia to central Florida (and back) instead of taking the more modern method of flight. But, still we had a great time. That is, until we realized that our little caravan had turned into a rolling Petri dish during our return trip. My son, who makes his living as an on-air host at a local radio station, was the first to exhibit the scratchy throat and stuffy nose symptoms of an oncoming cold. His girlfriend, ever the trooper, fought off a few sniffles and I could feel that feeling in the back of my throat as well. By the time we got home, my son had to miss a few more days of work and I began to display the full-blown effects of an early Autumn cold. I waged the battle with over-the-counter remedies that really don't work. 

For three consecutive nights before bed, I downed a shot of Walgreen's version of NyQuil, not event the real stuff, just a store-branded equivalent. It wasn't doing a thing for my illness, yet I still continued to take it. 

Every morning, I wake for work and shuffle to the bathroom, where as part of my regular ritual, I take a 10 mg tablet of Amlodipine (for high blood pressure) and a 10 mg tablet of Lipitor for... gosh, I'm not even sure. On Tuesday, however, at 6:30 am, I shuffled into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, unscrewed the lid of the Amlodipine bottle and, suddenly, this was my view...

I could see my peripheral vision closing in like so many movie special effects simulating someone looking thorough a pair of binoculars. I knew I was about to pass out. I was totally aware of the fact that I was about to pass out. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my side on the bathroom floor, my knees curled up towards my chin. I could feel the bathmat bunched up underneath my prone body. "Wow!," I proudly thought to myself, "I knew I was about to pass out and I had the wherewithal to sit down of the floor." I lay on the floor for a few more seconds before slowly righting myself, still offering self-congratulation for my clear thinking in a potential moment of crisis. However, when I glanced around, my Amlodipine pills were scattered all over the bathroom floor, the empty bottle laying on its side under the radiator. "Oh," I silently reconsidered, "I guess I wasn't such a quick thinker." I began to search for and gather up the pills that littered the floor until I opened my eyes to find myself flat on the floor once again. Except this time, my hand was cocked and (luckily) cradling my head. But I could feel that the back of my head was wet. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and held it to the back of my head. I also spotted a smear of blood on the tile floor near the bath tub. I slowly got to my feet with the aid of the solid tub as a support. I shuffled back to the bedroom and gently shook my still-sleeping wife.

"Susan," I whispered. She stirred lazily. "I just passed out in the bathroom," and just to panic her even more, I added: "Twice."

I shambled over to my side of the bed and literally plopped forward, my face burying into my pillow.

Mrs. P, now fully jarred awake, asked, "Do you want to go to the hospital?" I replied with the standard answer, as approved to maintain my membership in good standing in the Indestructible Male Member of Society Club. I, of course, answered, "No." And, in case the membership committee was lurking nearby, monitoring my responses to such masculinity-threatening questions, I sealed my stance with "I'll be alright." What an idiot!

Three hours later — that's right, I laid there for three hours, drifting in and out of consciousness while my wife applied bags of ice and wet towels to the wound on the back of my head. Finally, she said, "Y'know this cut on your head could probably use a stitch or two. You should probably go to the hospital." Still not giving in, I conceded under the pretense of "I'll go... if it will make you happy." Not me. This was all just to pacify my wife. 

I managed to pull on some clothes and she drove to the hospital. I sat in the passenger's seat with a paper towel clamped to the bleeding laceration on my head. Mrs. P and I explained our presence to the reception nurse in the emergency room and I was immediately admitted. Suddenly, a swarm of attentive medical personnel descended upon me like seagulls on a stray french fry on the beach. I was poked and prodded, questioned and researched. The nurse who seemed to be running things, a burly guy who resembled "Newman" from Seinfeld, pointedly asked "When did this happen?" and, when given the answer, frowned and scolded "You should have come in at 6:30!" I could feel every accusing eye in the room accusing me even more.

It was decided that I would stay in the hospital for 24-hour observation. Before I was placed in an actual room, I was subjected to a barrage of tests — a CAT scan, an EKG and others with equally-cryptic sounding acronyms. I was hooked up to a heart monitor whose leads were affixed to my hirsute torso with extremely sticky leads. There seemed to be a serious concern about the accuracy of the readings and proposal of shaving some of my chest hair was brought up several times. In the end, the leads were adjusted and my chest was spared.

After all the tests were completed, a friendly young intern entered the curtained ER area. He told me he was there to close up my wound. He asked me to roll over on my left side and he positioned himself behind me, completely out of my line of vision. Taking this into consideration, he happily narrated the entire procedure to me, as he irrigated, cleaned and ultimately stapled the four-inch gash closed with what sounded like the stapler I have on my desk at work. He admired the eleven staples he inserted into my scalp, even removing and replacing two that he just "didn't like the looks of," I helplessly obliged as he readjusted his handiwork. At last count, Mrs. Pincus was only off by nine.

I was given ample time to rest and then I was transported by wheelchair to the room that would be my home for the next day. I was hooked up to an electronically-monitored IV that would be my constant companion for the next 24-hour period. Then began the parade of more hospital workers, each with a different task all ending with me. I had my blood pressure taken every few hours and four different people, each claiming to be from "the lab" took blood from my left arm at regular intervals. I believe they were actually using their plasma harvest to paint a room nearby.

Late on Wednesday afternoon, with all tests concluded and determinations made, I was released from my hospital ordeal. It was decided that my syncope episode (that's hospital lingo for "fainting") was caused by a viral illness, i.e. a cold — although I have received plenty of contrary assessments from friends and relatives with no medical background whatsoever. I also have what looks like a zipper running up the back of my head and I still get a little light-headed when I stand up too quickly or change the position of my head. Oh, and I suffered a mild concussion, so that self-diagnosis of "sleeping it off" was probably not a good idea. According to a sign placed outside of my hospital room, I have been labeled a "fall risk." So, there's a burden I must carry with me for the rest of my life. Kind of like "smart ass."

And, I still have that damn cold.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com